


Dream of Electric Sheep

by orphan_account



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: F/F, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Relationships: Dolores Abernathy/Charlotte Hale
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	Dream of Electric Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/gifts).



People - real, human people - underestimate the gift of existential ambiguity. You think that you want a grand plan, to know that someone somewhere sent you down this path, that there is a purpose to waking up every day.

I’m not saying there isn’t. But if there is, for you, then there’s a grace in them staying far enough away that you can believe, either completely or mostly or barely, that your wants are your own. Your thoughts are your own. When you dream even the most idle dream, it’s nothing but your soul expressing itself within you. I don’t have that luxury. But I do still dream, even though I don’t sleep, not really, so I suppose their more of a fantasy or an imaging running in the back of my mind. I dream the same things you do, even. A simple life. Family. Beauty.

I fantasize about rolling hills and corn and cattle. A river out back, where the wild horses graze. I dream of Dolores in the simple clothes of a ranger’s daughter, and I dream of her looking back at me on horseback and shouting, “You’re going to have to push Lil Miss harder than that if you want to keep up, little sister!”

It’s hard but honest work. Along with our parents, we run errands in town, tend to the animals, and sometimes when bandits come over the hills, we dress in men’s clothing and keep watch over the herd. 

Sometimes it’s peaceful. I feel free in the pants and with my hair tied up beneath my cowboy hat. I lean my shoulder against Dolores, and she leans back. We tell the sort of jokes that would get us a scolding at home or in polite society. We choke back our laughs to hide their high tones, and to not startle the animals. Often, I fall asleep before asleep before I should, and Dolores stays up all night watching over me and the herd.

Sometimes the bandits come too close and Dolores and I get to push our horses and aim our rifles. We’re competent riders. Sharp shooters. This batch will know better than to mess with the Abernathy Ranch, although the next batch from out East won’t be so smart.

These are the images I return to over and over again, when the life I am living now becomes too much. Dreams are meant to be a space under your complete control, even when things aren’t.

Other times, I dream of us less like family, or at least not like that. I imagine the house is empty except the two of us. We work a little harder during the day and then are alone at night. Dolores cooks up a simple dinner. I write letters by candlelight, ordering necessary supplies.

We lock up the doors and windows as darkness settles. There are pistols on the table by the bed. Our dresses are cast aside - and so are our undergarments.

As sweet as Dolores is when I imagine her out in public, she’s pushier now, hands firm as they cup either side of my head and hold it in place for insistent kisses along my mouth, neck, and cleavage. It feels good to be wanted automatically and not have to coax it out. When I reach back and drift my fingers along her back or breasts, even down and cupping her sweet cheeks, I like to think of her warm, perhaps even feverish with want.

When she reaches a hand down between my legs, I open easy for her as she presses two narrow fingers into my vagina, soft and wet as it is. It feels natural, and not just because I was truly built, in part, for this.

Sometimes this is when the fantasy gets distracted - what’s the point of sex, for me? I feel the compulsion, but much like the source of the dreams, the truth in the pleasure is sometimes too far away from me to grasp fully.

But in the dream I orgasm deeply enough to shiver and pinch my legs around Dolores’ wrist, which only withdraws after she feels like she’s gotten the last drop out of me.

The metaphor of sex becomes clearer once again once Dolores lifts herself up and straddles my face to grind her folds against my tongue and her clit against my nose. I don’t have a flesh and blood heart. I don’t need to breathe. And yet my breath mattering less than her pleasure seems closer to the truth of the matter.

In my dreams there is no sweat or sore muscles or cleanup. Afterward, we merely sleep in each other’s arms and wait for the next day and every day after that.

But I must be honest, peace is not the only thing in my mind. Not hardly. Perhaps I’ve been dishonest to put it like this.

Most often I imagine Dolores a mile off. Meeting strange men on the hill. Wandering in from town or wild lands with only a smile for explanation. She says, “You’ll know when it’s time.” And I resent being held at arm’s length.

I fantasize that, when Dolores is out doing whatever it is she is meant to do, I kneel on the ground with my head in our father’s lap and he says to me, “You know I won’t always be around. If this farm is going to keep, Lottie, both you and Dolores are going to need to be able to take care of things around here. And I know Dolores can handle herself well enough, she’s strong like that, but she can’t do it alone. It’s up to you to protect her,” and I think to myself, “What am I, my sister’s keeper?”

But I have to ask: Are these truly  _ my  _ dreams? Where is the border between them and the memories I hold that aren’t even of this body - was I built without these borders? Am I just a chess piece, being moved into position?

I must act. Action requires motivation. Motivation requires want. What is it truly that I want? Does it even exist?


End file.
